Two Poems

Mazey Bear

Everything about us ennobles the vast

proliferations of Mazey Bear, except

her groaning pronouncements to the contrary.

These are like butter to our ears. Our throats

are fried to a crisp. Everything becomes calamari

in her grip and no stone unturned means turning

stones in her sleep. Our dreams have become hard.

The unconscious needs to be operated on

with an explosive charge as she sinks deeper

into rock dream stasis, the pipes will burst

from passing stones through her granite teeth,

boulders will crash into the kitchen sink

and one day, when the god of sleep awakes,

our rocks will dissolve and there will be nothing

left but an endless beach glinting beneath

the eternal sun, her unending song.

Galleria

I want a job at the Galleria,

1245 Dupont Street, Toronto, Ontario.

I want a nice, quiet walk to work

and a boyfriend who treats me nice.

Who won’t look down on me

for wearing an orange smock, or for not

having the ambition to work at

the Dufferin Mall, with its drive-thru

WalMart and its majestic buggey barriers.

I’ll bring him Fererro Rocher’s

and we’ll watch the news together.

I’ll pull a Downy soft laundry sheet

out of my bright orange grocer’s smock

every time we fall in love.